Not in Real Life
by Lady Heliotrope
Summary: "Mrs Hudson is a fangirl and wishes John and Sherlock would get together. She writes saucy fanfic based on what she sees at 221B." Prompt from LJ. WIP. Slashness of main characters is ambiguous. But what Mrs. Hudson wants is not ambiguous at all!
1. Chapter 1

**Gigue in D Major**

- 1 -

Mrs. Hudson didn't know how it happened.

She'd settled down one fine summer evening with her knitting and her typical cuppa to watch the telly.

She didn't watch the telly during the week, and only rarely on weekends, mostly because she preferred to do something productive with her time. Like listen to books on tape. Or wile away the hours with Mr. Chatterjee - such an _interesting _man - or, if he was unavailable, her friend and neighbor Marie Turner, who owned the building next to hers.

She also had plenty of obligations to meet, of course, such as her correspondence course in French. (She was planning to go down to Morocco in the winter with Mr. Chatterjee, who, while somewhat evasive on committing to the trip, was enthusiastic about the romantic city.)

And of course there were bills to be paid, and she was thinking about getting some work done on the house and saving up for those little repairs (probably would be put off until next spring).

_And_ she was trying to get a handle on gardening (not really her area, as she was informed by her worst lodger, but he could appreciate that at least it wasn't bingo).

_And_ of course she was baking every day, for which she had a good excuse since the boys upstairs seemed like they couldn't bear to cook for themselves and ate virtually nothing except take-out. (As far as she saw.)

In fact, having all this on her plate, she hadn't watched much television at all in the past month, and had no idea what was on the programme for the evening.

It didn't matter all that much to her; usually what turned out to be playing on a Sunday evening was pleasant and engaging enough to suit her purposes. Which purposes entirely consisted of lazing about, since she was hot and tired after having run errands on her bicycle all day.

The only thing that was nagging at her mind was the hope that, after such an exhausting day, her son Billy would _not _choose this particular evening to call and ask for money.

(He was such a spendthrift, but she always relented because she remembered vividly what it was like to be a student in another country. And honestly, the stories he had to tell about his time in Amsterdam were _thrilling_.)

Other than that, there wasn't much on her mind. For the moment.

But that was about to change, because it was July 25th, 2010, and she was watching BBC One, and it was 9pm, literally just a minute after sunset.

And then she saw it.

_IT._

A new television series called _Sherlock_.

Starring her lodgers. As themselves.

_Oh my._

* * *

><p>To be continued! Posting tomorrow.<p>

Prompt from sherlockbbc (on Livejournal): Make Me a Monday Week 75, "Mrs Hudson is a fangirl and wishes John and Sherlock would get together. She writes saucy fanfic based on what she sees at 221B." Suggested by **atheneparthenos.**

Reviews, please? :)


	2. Chapter 2

- 2 -

Mrs. Hudson was paralyzed with a mixture of delight, curiosity, horror, and a hundred other emotions as she watched the drama play out, and she literally screamed when the commercials hit.

How had this happened? She'd never seen a television crew in her house!

Then again, she wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have come up with such a project and execute it secretly.

He was rather good with secrets. Ever since he moved in that past January.

_But the story started with them moving in that past January!_

That was just one of the many problems with this show, she realized.

Another problem was that Sherlock didn't seem to realize that he was on television.

If he had been, she was sure, he'd have been talking at the camera more often than he was talking to Watson, just because he was a big show-off and she knew it. Just a big old wunderkind who'd never grown up. Like Peter Pan.

And furthermore, the film crew seemed to have such a talent that they managed to be present at spontaneous - but crucial - moments in the lives of her lodgers.

(A strange kind of documentary it was!)

It was shocking, too, to see herself on the screen at some points in the film, and _that _was certainly a surprise.

It wasn't an actress, that was for sure. The outfit she was wearing, she'd made it herself.

She knew that strict surveillance was kept on Sherlock and John - Mycroft Holmes paid her handsomely just to be her own nosy busybody self, and she didn't tell him one truth anyway.

But this - this wasn't something captured on surveillance tapes.

This was professionally crafted. A beautiful work of cinema, the perfect realization of real life captured somehow on film.

But - improbable as it was - it WAS real life.

And she began to get very cross at the idea that this was happening.

She stayed glued to the telly the whole time the thing aired, and then ran up the stairs to see if the boys would watch it with her when it showed again at eleven.

But they weren't there, so she just left a note to the effect that they really _ought _to take a breather from chasing down their latest quarry - they'd just barely finished solving the case that John called so quaintly 'The Speckled Blonde,' how was it they were already gone to Devon after some Solitary Cyclist or whatever it was they'd been talking about that morning?

She thought their run-about, fox-hunting detective work was silly, and preferred the idea of being Harriet Vane. Especially with such an attractive man as Lord Peter at her heels.

Then again, she supposed business was business, so if they enjoyed to run around the country doing their little problem-solving investigations, let them.

She was planning to write some mystery novels of her own, someday.

So she looked at her tv schedule pamphlet for July and saw that it was showing again at twelve thirty in the morning on the HD channel.

So she set an alarm and snoozed through _Coast _and _Modern Masters, _lounging on the sofa.


	3. Chapter 3

- 3 -

Mrs. Hudson awoke when it was time for the second airing of _Sherlock_, and sought desperately for the first half of it to find some critical _flaw_ that would prove to her that what she was seeing was _not _real life but _was _excellent actors and excellent props an excellent sets.

She sought in vain.

And then she began to wonder if she might be imagining all this.

Heaven knows that this kind of thing shouldn't be happening.

How on earth _was _it happening?

The moment she got the idea that this all might be a result of herbal soothers getting the better of her mind, Mrs. Hudson called Marie Turner, telling the woman to get the _hell _out of bed and turn on the tube.

It was only _one in the morning_, after all, and she needed someone else to confirm that she _wasn't just seeing things._

Marie had a very concise response to the show, which she only caught the second half of given the lateness of Mrs. Hudson's urgent telephone call.

"How and why the _fuck _did God make a television show about your _Sherlock_?"

Because that's the only explanation they could find, between the two of them, as they talked about it the rest of the night - there was no evidence that any human agent had been involved in creating this show except the rolling credits.

And the credits listed some actors, directors, and producers that could _not _be found anywhere on the internet, according to Marie.

Really, there wasn't a _Benedict Cumberbatch _or _Martin Freeman _or _Steven Moffat _or _Mark Gatiss _or _Una Stubbs _(this last being the name of Mrs. Hudson's supposed _actress_) to be found _anywhere._

Except for things that listed the cast of the show, _Sherlock._

(Even on Wikipedia, their names were mere stubs saying something to the accord of "English actor / actress who appears in the television series, _Sherlock _(2010)." No birthdate, no biographical details...nothing.)

So, in Marie's words, "It's clear they don't fucking exist. Anything that exists, it fucking _exists _on the internet."

(Marie had a distinct lack of sex in her life, Mrs. Hudson knew, which probably is the reason she liked to allude to it so frequently and crudely in conversation.)

Soon it was three in the morning, and Mrs. Hudson heard the front door slam and the cheerful banter between the boys as they ascended the stairs.

She said a quick _ringing off, have a good sleep _to Marie, and poked her head out of her suite's door.

"Yoo hoo, boys."

"Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Hudson," said John, pausing midstep and turning to address her. "We were just-"

"-No, you didn't wake me, doctor. I was up."

She paused to look back at her television, which, incidentally, had moved on to the blank screen that showed when the HD channel ended its daily programmes, and she sighed.

The doctor was smiling at her with an expression that showed he was being patient, but that he was at the end of his tether.

"I made an interesting discovery today," she mused, though it was at best an understatement.

"Can it _wait_, perhaps?" asked John, his ears perking up as he heard his name being called by Sherlock. The other man was probably flopped onto the couch by now.

Mrs. Hudson just grinned and nodded.

She knew how young lovers - even if they _didn't know _they were lovers yet_ -_ were.

And perhaps it would be better to wait, she thought as she watched him trudge up the stairs as if he were Atlas bearing the earth on his shoulders.

If he didn't know about it, it'd be rather a shock, wouldn't it?

Heaven knows she hadn't made sense of it yet, and the show wasn't even about _her_.

(She also was wondering if next week the show would begin to illustrate the relationship between her lodgers, which it had merely alluded to with John's typical I'm-not-gay line and Sherlock's ambiguity in the restaurant scene.)

So for the moment, she just said good night and went to sleep in her real bed, her mind a'turning with invigorating questions.


	4. Chapter 4

- 4 -  
>The next morning, Mrs. Hudson went over to Marie's, to talk.<p>

They watched the second half (on a tape; Marie had only begun recording when Martha had implored it of her) of the first episode of _Sherlock_ three more times, pausing and talking about each thing they found interesting.

Neither of them could make heads or tails of the matter. So they decided to stop turning over the hows and whys and wherefores and just accept that Sherlock had pulled some elaborate trick of some sort on them, because the thing was so unbelievable that if God wasn't involved (which he couldn't be; why would he concern himself with this kind of tomfoolery?), Sherlock was the next best thing.

He must have been trying out some new spy technology and gotten a bit carried away with the results. And sent it to their televisions remotely. And it was easy enough to make a few web-pages, of course.

Moreover, Mrs. Hudson could attest that the man was prone to first-degree boredom, and that the thing might have been inspired by a fit of wondering about whether or not someone could be conceivably convinced that their life was a bit role on a television show.

Heaven knows some murders must have been committed by people - deranged actors a la All About Eve? - who believed they were just acting out a script!

Just because it was both of them, Martha and Marie, meant nothing, of course; Sherlock was smart enough to know that Mrs. Hudson would confer with her friend.

So it all must have just been an experiment on them.

Having reached this conclusion, Mrs. Hudson was filled with indignant anger, but she was also more than a little excited.

Was Sherlock filming them right now, having this conversation?

Probably not, they decided; it seemed that Mrs. Hudson's role in the show was, at least for the moment, limited to when she interacted with Sherlock.

So if she went upstairs right about now...

Quickly, as they were seized with inspiration and were very aware that the boys could potentially leave the house at the drop of a hat, Mrs. Hudson and Marie tossed some day-old muffins in the microwave, plated them with a pot of tea at their side, and they went back next door to 221.

They shushed their giggles at the base of the stairs and ascended, noisy in a normal way, talking exhaustively about remodeling work.

And they knocked. And waited.

And John opened the door, bleary-eyed and donned in rumpled pyjamas.

"Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner," he greeted each of them in turn, as bumbly and disoriented as a newborn fawn, and they pushed past him, nearly making him topple on his newly-awake legs.

"We brought you a spot of breakfast, since you were out so late." Mrs. Hudson deposited the tray on the counter, which John seemed to be in the process of clearing anyhow to make himself a pot of tea.

"Not because I'm your housekeeper, mind. Also, I want to show Marie the molding that I want redone, if it won't be a bother. Her brother might be able to do it."

"If it's too fucking lovely, though, I'm afraid I will have to suggest a professional to work on it," added Marie pleasantly.

"Oh...that's nice of you?" said John, a bit confused but not that much; Mrs. Hudson came in to tidy things up and bring them breakfast rather more frequently than most landladies did, but she was a friend. "Thanks."

He poured himself a cuppa and buttered a muffin numbly, eating it standing and gazing out the window at the morning sunshine, dulled by clouds.

"Mind the rubbish," said Mrs. Hudson, a woman on a mission, and she was moving the armchair over so that she could reach the curtain-rod in the living room.

She paid not the least attention to Sherlock, who was a huddled heap on the couch, fetally curled and hiding his head under four pillows.


	5. Chapter 5

- 5 -

"See, it's a bit worn," she said, holding the curtain rod in one hand and putting her other hand on her hip in a saucy fashion, "and I was thinking of getting it done in vinyl. It lasts a long time, they say."

Marie acted exasperated. "Art can't do fucking vinyl. He can do a quick fix - not something nice."

"Are you sure? I heard they have these packages that you buy on the internet, and they come and all you need to do is-"

An ominous rumble came from the couch as Sherlock exclaimed (into the pillows), "-Mrs. Hudson, what are you looking for?"

She seemed affronted at the fact that he'd sniffed out their mission so quickly. "Redoing the molding, that's what. Really, Sherlock, we'll be out in a touch." She briskly refocused on her conversation, receiving a conspirational wink from Marie, who was trying not to laugh. "So I was thinking of ordering one of those packages, and as I was reading on your computer the other day-"

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, not moving but clearly irritated. "It's clear that you think you're going to find something. What, I can't imagine. Can't you wait to snoop until we've gone out, like you did last Tuesday?"

"Oh, come now, Sherlock, I was just returning John's camera he lent me."

"You didn't delete the pictures, by the way," said John from the kitchen. "And from what I saw, I don't think I ever want to see Mr. Chatterjee again in my life. You don't get to borrow it any more, Mrs. Hudson."

"Ooooh," said Marie in an expression of jealousy, "you got pictures of you two?"

"They gave me ever so hard a time, getting them developed," replied Mrs. Hudson with a wink. "Don't worry, doctor, I didn't give them your memory card - I put the pictures I wanted on a disc. So they didn't see the ones you had."

"I don't know what you're insinuating," said John flatly.

"What was on his memory card, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Sherlock, deciding that now was as good a time as any to sit up and scowl at everyone.

"Nothing," Mrs. Hudson said, winking with altogether too much cheerfulness for so early in the morning.

"Flowers," John replied. "Just flowers. In windowboxes. Geraniums, mostly."

"Boring," said Sherlock, and swiped the newspaper from the table, initially to read it, then it quickly became too boring as well, and he put it over his face as if to return to sleep.

"Yes, just flowers..." said Mrs. Hudson, and Marie grinned, the implications of such a simple fact not being lost on either of them.

"I'm not gay," said John, realizing that they were conspiring against him somehow,"just because I like to go out walking and take pictures of flowers."

"No, not gay, just effeminate," said Sherlock without moving, possibly without breathing.

John seemed to dislike this even more than the idea that he was thought to be gay, and glowered at the company before retreating into his tea.

"Anyway," said Mrs. Hudson, "I just wanted to show you this, Marie. I noticed it when Sherlock had me crawling on my hands and knees for him last month, pushing around a bust of some Roman emperor so it looked like he was at home from outside the window."

"And a lovely job you did, too, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock with a note of affection, "but now you've shown Mrs. Turner your potential project, would you mind terribly fetching me a cup of the aromatic black tea you left in the kitchen?"

"Not your housekeeper," she replied tenderly, scanning the room for the fortieth time in the past five minutes, seeing nothing that revealed cameras hiding in the rafters or anywhere else. But she still brought him his tea.


	6. Chapter 6

- 6 -

"There's nothing telling at all. It's really very clever."

The women had spent the next three days sneaking about the boys' apartment, on pretense of spring cleaning (It's July, Mrs. Hudson) and finding nothing, absolutely nothing, to substantiate their experience.

Frustrated and exhausted, they were at Marie's again, and Marie was half-engaged in listening to Martha rant, half-engaged in reading fanfiction for Doctor Who on her computer.

Mrs. Hudson was pounding at a loaf of bread dough, embedding her frustrations with her lodgers into the food.

"And it's just not right, Marie. As much as he might be bored, it's not good. It's not decent. It's an infringement on my rights!"

"Uhuh."

Marie had gone from fifty percent engaged in Mrs. Hudson's rant to twenty five percent engaged. She had found something extraordinary.

"I don't know what he's up to! What is he doing, trying to make us believe that the fabric of reality has become frayed? Or just drive us bloody insane?"

"Um. Martha. Look at this."

Mrs. Hudson left the dough on her silica baking mat and, wiping her hands on her apron, peered over Marie's shoulder.

What they saw, dear readers, is something that you've possibly seen for yourselves.

Marie had searched for "Rory and Amy" and was reviewing the newly published stories that featured the pair.

And lo and behold, there was a story, published on July 29, 2010 called _Stuff with Sherlock_by the author Funnyboo2424. It was 3,678 words and the summary went like this:

_Rory and Amy are hanging out with Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't get that he's supposed to be fictional. Problems ensue. Oneshot._

"Good lord," said Marie, "he must be really keen on teasing us if he's doing something this obscure." She looked like her sacred space had been violated.

"Can he control a computer like that?" asked Mrs. Hudson with awe.

"If he did...he must really...I don't know," Marie said, clearly baffled. And still holding an expression of looking like Sherlock had infringed a step too far.

She clicked on the story, grimaced, and went to Home, then to TV Shows, and then to S.

Her expression remained incredulous. "They made a category for it," she breathed in wonder.

There were only four stories written for Sherlock at that point, and this Stuff with Sherlock was the latest one written, and granted one of them was in Spanish. But still. A category for Sherlock!

"This is unbelievable," said Marie, who was enough of a fanfiction junkie to realize the implications of this. "How did he do this?"

"Maybe...maybe it's a real show?" asked Mrs. Hudson, daring to make the suggestion they both feared.

"Nah," said Marie, after a moment of consideration. "He just hacked the site. I mean, come on. It's easy to write three fucking stories. But then again..."

She clicked on the author, Funnyboo2424, who'd written _Stuff with Sherlock_, and her jaw dropped.

"He...he didn't fucking write fifty totally irrelevant stories over the past six years to fuck with us like this, right?" she asked, and clicked on one of the author's Doctor Who stories. It wasn't long before she was too absorbed in the fic, and retreated with a hasty click of the back button. "This isn't your Sherlock writing this. This is a real person. Who knows how to fucking feel."

Her eyes lit up after a moment. "Maybe...maybe this is a sign," she said, and she looked at Mrs. Hudson, who wasn't understanding everything, since she hadn't had much more exposure to fanfiction than the occasional Agatha Christie fanfiction that Marie made her read.

"What kind of sign?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"I...I don't know," said Marie, losing faith in her idea. But then she got another one.

"How about we make you a fanfiction account, Martha."

"What?"

"You're going to sit yourself down and write a fanfiction. About Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were wide, and she was rubbing her hands raw against her apron, trying to get the flour. "I am?"

"I'll tutor you, don't worry," said Marie, grabbing a chair and pushing her friend on the tush until she sat, thoughtful but intimidated. "You've always said you wanted to write, here's a chance. Let's do this. With a vengeance. If he's going to fuck with us, by George let's fuck with him too. He's made himself a character in a television show. That means he's fair game for us to write fanfiction about. And you do remember that delicious Miss Marple / Poirot I gave you that one time, yes?"

"Oh lord, that was horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, paling.

"Exactly," Marie cooed, "You are going to do _that_."

* * *

><p>Two notes from the author:<p>

_Stuff with Sherlock _doesn't exist. But _Chess with Sherlock, _by Emmylou, does. And it does have Rory and Amy hanging out with Sherlock. And it was published on 7 - 29 - 10. So if you're interested, go check that out.

Another thing you need to check out is the profile of **MrsHudson221**. Or, if you can't find it, search for the story "Flowers in a desert need a drop of rain" which should be one of the more recent published works under the Sherlock (TV show) category.

There you can read Mrs. Hudson's fanfiction. (It's a pastiche account. The stories are by me.)

'Nuff said.


End file.
